He sat down, and drew
Daisy up to his side.
"I will let you go."
"Thank you, papa!"
"Do you know," said Mr. Randolph, "that your mother is going
to ask you to sing that song again when Sunday evening comes?"
The smile vanished from Daisy's face; it grew suddenly dark;
and a shuddering motion was both seen and felt by Mr.
Randolph, whose arm was round her.
"Daisy," said he, not unkindly, "do you know that I think you
a little fool?"
She lifted her eyes quickly, and in their meeting with her
father's there was much — much that Mr. Randolph felt without
stopping to analyse, and that made his own face as suddenly
sober as her own. There was no folly in that quick grave look
of question or appeal; it seemed to carry the charge in
another direction.
"You think it is not right to sing such a song on a Sunday?"
he asked.
"No, papa."
"But, suppose, by singing it, you could do a great deal of
good, instead of harm."
"How, papa?"
"I will give you a hundred dollars for singing it, — which you
may spend as you please for all the poor people about
Melbourne or Crum Elbow."
It was very singular to him to see the changes in Daisy's
face. Light and shadow came and went with struggling
quickness.
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